The Succession of Suzumiya Brigade
by knicknack
Summary: There was some physical abnormality that was inconsistent with Haruhi Suzumiya. And it was bugging the hell out of him.


It didn't feel right, Kyon thought. It didn't feel right at all. Haruhi should not have been wearing a powder blue hospital gown. She should be wearing her blue and white uniform. But that wasn't it. Her hands shouldn't be laying limply by here side. They were always in constant motion, as Haruhi liked to talk with her hands. But that wasn't it. She shouldn't have been lying on a hospital bed with her head turned towards the window. She should have been in motion, always in motion, in pursuit of the next thrill. But that wasn't it. Then what was so...off about Haruhi Suzumiya? Stupid question. She had fucking leukemia. But that...that was internal. It was all about blood and bones and marrow and complicated Latin words that he would frequently stumble over. This...whatever it was, it was external. There was some physical abnormality that was inconsistent with Haruhi Suzumiya. And it was bugging the hell out of him.

"Kyon," she said. He blinked. He didn't think she knew anyone was there, let alone the identity of that person. Well. Now he felt like a creep, having just stared at her for a good five minutes. He felt the familiar rising of heat in his cheeks that Haruhi had caused all too often.

"Kyon..."she continued. "I want to total my first car." He blinked again. Had he heard her right?

"I want to cry when my first boyfriend cheats on me. I want to get fired. I want to have a hangover. I want to shove cake onto my husband's face at our wedding. I want to get really, really weird cravings when I'm pregnant. I want to have a mid-life crisis. I want to use a cane. I want to argue with my children about putting me in a retirement home. I want to die in my sleep." This, he realized, was Haruhi's life plan. He was surprised. There was nothing about aliens or espers or time travellers. Nothing about alternate worlds or unexplained phenomenons. Not even a mention of a household poltergeist. It was surprisingly...normal. "And none of that is going to happen,"she said. "Because I'm going to die here. I'm going to die here, in this hospital bed. And I'll never...I'll never get to do any of that. Ever. And that's not...that's not okay."

Haruhi started to move. No, not move...shift? Her head was sort of bobbing up and down and...oh. She was crying. Kyon realized what was not right about her. There was nothing in her hair. For as long as he had known her, she had never left her hair unadorned. There was always a clip, or a scrunchie, or a ribbon of some sort. But now...now as she was crying in a hospital bed with her head away from him, the lack of any hair ornamentation was profoundly disturbing to him. Then again...why would you put your hair up when you're lying in a hospital bed, dying of leukemia? It probably wasn't very important to you.

Suddenly, he felt like such an asshole standing awkwardly between the doorway and the bed, clutching onto a bouquet of flowers with a card placed inside. He had felt they were appropriate, at the time. He had gone to the flower shop solo and stood, lost, surrounded by all those flowers and smells. He had quickly decided on some nice looking purple flowers already arranged into a bouquet. The old lady at the counter smiled conspiratorially at him and asked him if it was for a special girl. It was for a special girl, he supposed, so he nodded. The elderly woman winked and told him to play safe. Oh, he would play safe, alright. Hospital regulation safe. He would wear gloves upon entering her room, and sanitize his hands upon entering and exiting the hospital. He would have no more than two other visitors in the room with him at a time. He would not cause discomfort to other patients, and would abide by the standard visiting hours. He would not, under any conditions, smoke on the premises, or risk a minimum fine of three thousand yen.

The card was Asahina-san's doing. She had chosen an obnoxious yellow card with a kitten raising a paw with the words "Get Well Soon!" displayed over it's head. She had thought it would be nice for all of them to sign it. And sure enough, there was Asahina-san's feminine cursive, and Nagato's perfect letters. Beside that was Koizumi's chicken scratch and his own slanted writing. And they could do all that. They could go out and buy cards and flowers. They could pay lip-service to Haruhi at her bed-side. They could do pretty much whatever the hell they wanted, because they had futures. Haruhi did not. He closed his eyes. "No," he whispered. "It's not okay." He turned and left, depositing the gifts in the nearest trash can. Haruhi didn't need flowers or cards or well wishes. She needed a miracle.

He was surprised to say the least when Haruhi's mother called him late one night. It was a school night and he had a Japanese test tomorrow, so he was less than pleased at the midnight phone call. His family wasn't so delighted by the rude wake up call either. His mom glared at him as she handed him the phone, as though he was expecting a call that late.

"Hello," said the tired female voice on the other end. "This is Suzumiya Kaoru. I'm Haruhi's mother. I hope I'm not disturbing you. She...took a turn for the worse earlier today. The doctor said she probably won't make it through the night. I thought...you should know." He didn't know what to say to that. He sat on his bed, looking at the poster of a popular idol in a less than modest outfit on his wall, his feet hanging limp and adjacent to the bed. "She talks about you, you know," the voice continued after a long pause. "Oh, she talks about the other kids in that club of hers, too, but her face lights up when she talks about you. You...are a very precious person to my daughter. I hope you realize that. Take care."

He was at the hospital before one. He was in his pajamas with a terrible case of bed head, but he was there. In Haruhi's room were two people, a middle-aged man and woman. The woman had her greying hair tied back in a bun and was wringing her hands together. She had probably been very beautiful in her youth. The man was pudgy and wore small, delicate looking glasses unbecoming to a man of his height. It was from him that Haruhi inherited her odd coloured yes. Her parents, he realized. Haruhi...had parents. It had never really occurred to him that she had parents. He knew she must have, but he had never really given it any thought. She probably had cousins. She probably went to boring family dinners, and got hideous sweaters from distant relatives. She probably had a childhood pet that had mysteriously chosen to 'go live on a farm.' As these thoughts ran through his mind, he realized how very little he actually knew about the girl who was wasting away on that bed. He sat down beside her. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes were closed. He was surprised to feel her clasp his hand in hers. She squeezed. For two hours he sat beside her. It was easily the most awkward experience of his life. He didn't know where to look. Should he look at his dying friend? Should he look at the two parents who were watching their daughter die? He settled on watching their hands, his head bent. Suddenly ,her grip relaxed and her hand fell onto the bed. He sat there, just staring at the limp limb he was holdings as the flat line beeped and her mother sobbed. At 1:36 AM on Tuesday, November 18th, Suzumiya Haruhi passed away.

Kyon wasn't quite sure what to expect at her funeral, but it wasn't this. He half believed that Haruhi would honestly be sitting on her casket, swinging her legs, laughing about how they all fell for it. She wasn't. It was a terribly bland affair. There weren't many people he knew there, aside from the remnants of the S.O.S Brigade. Most of those gathered there were family of the deceased. The casket was closed, and a school picture of Haruhi rested on top of it. Snacks and beverages were laid out on a table to the left. Everyone wore black and spoke in hushed tones, making sure to offer their condolences. He didn't cry. He didn't cry because there was no trace of Haruhi there. Haruhi would have made everyone come wearing scandalous outfits. Haruhi would have blackmailed the funeral director into installing a disco ball. Haruhi would have ejected anyone who dared shed a tear. But she didn't. Because she couldn't. Because the dead were powerless. And Haruhi Suzumiya, the girl who could destroy and re-create worlds at will, was dead.

As it turned out, Haruhi Suzumiya was the only thing keeping the S.O.S Brigade together. Asahina-san was the first to leave. She returned to her own time after saying an extended goodbye to each member, and sobbing a great deal. Koizumi was next. He received a message from The Agency stating that he was reassigned. As it turned out, The Agency was not focused only on cleaning up after Haruhi's messes. With a wave and a grin, he was gone. Nagato and Kyon heading to the club room everyday. No words were spoken during these sessions. Nagato would sit quietly in her chair reading a book. Kyon would fiddle with this and that on the computer. Six days after Asahina-san left he was intensely bored. He took to watching Nagato, who never seemed to be conscious of his stare. At one point he realized that she had not turned the page of her book for sixteen minutes.

"I did not wish for Haruhi Suzumiya to die," said Nagato, never looking up from her book. Kyon was surprised. It was the first time she had spoken without being spoken to since the funeral. She folded the page she was on, closed the book, and put it on her lap. "I did not wish for Haruhi Suzumiya to die," she repeated, looking him straight in the eye.

"No,"said Kyon. "None of us did." When Nagato left that night, he knew she would not return. Before she left the club room, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into a hug. She stiffened, and seemed uncomfortable with the contact. He held onto her for far too long before he released her. "Take care...Yuki," he whispered.

Nagato looked up at him from behind her glasses and nodded. She turned to leave, but paused after a few steps. "Be...content," she said, her back turned towards him, and walked away. Sure enough, Yuki was not sitting in her chair the next day. She would never come back to that room as long as he lived. He stood looking at the empty chairs gathering dust in the club room, and for the first time since Haruhi had died, he cried. No, not cried. Cried was too delicate a word. He sobbed and wept and heaved. He smashed chairs and generally created a ruckus. When the spell had passed, he was lying on the ground, looking at the sun spilling through the windows. It felt nice to feel the damp tracks on his cheeks dry in the sun, and the warm wood under his back . And for the first time since Haruhi had died, he smiled.

Shinichi Takahiro was eating a bento box. Again. The same bento box, in fact, that he had eaten the day before. And the day before that. And the day before that. Shinichi had been a principal at this school for twenty six years. For the past fifteen of those years, his wife had packed him the exact same lunch. Frankly, it was getting old. And so, he was stuffing onigiri into his mouth for the nth time when Kyon busted in. He almost choked. This wasn't like Kyon. He didn't know the boy well, certainly, but he had talked to him about the fiascoes that occurred as a direct result of the S.O.S Brigade, as he had done with every member of the group. He seemed to be the only normal one in the bunch. It was a shame about that Suzumiya girl...

"I want to start a club, "said Kyon, quite out of breath.

Shinichi blinked. Sure enough, Kyon was clutching a club application form that required Shinichi's signature in his sweaty palm. "Surely this can wait until later,"said Shinichi.

"No," Kyon insisted. "It can't."

"And what," Shinichi asked, "is the name of this club that needs to be created right at this very moment?"

"The Succession of Suzumiya Brigade,"said Kyon. Seeing Shinichi's look, he added, "That's a mouthful, right? No one will join it with that name. So, I think we'll shorten it. How does the S.O.S Brigade sound?"

In all his twenty six years as a principal, Shinichi Takahiro never signed anything as gladly as he did that sweaty, crumpled piece of paper.


End file.
